


The Darling Affair Whumplets

by Ice_Cube44



Series: The Darling Affair [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Whump, Ex-Military Killian Jones, Ex-Military Liam Jones, Gen, Killian Whump, Liam Emotional Whump, Social Worker Emma Swan, The Darling Affair Universe, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-02-14 14:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13009566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Cube44/pseuds/Ice_Cube44
Summary: A collection of ficlets from Whumptober/Inktober 2017 that directly relate to the events that take place in my MC The Darling Affair.  Pre-series and post-series.





	1. Bag Over Head

Killian Jones has been a lot of things in his life - an officer in the Navy, a bothersome little brother, freelance muscle, abandoned son - but he has never been dishonest with himself.  And honestly?  He hates the dark.  He always has, way back to the small bedroom that he and Liam shared with no windows and a door that had to be closed per their mother’s request.  Not that it blocked out the yelling.  Or the slamming doors.  Or her stifled tears when their father stormed out. Again.

Or worse, those years in group homes, fighting to stay with Liam and bartering for batteries for the penlight he’d snitched from some nurse’s office or another.  They’d never lasted long enough and the duct tape around the switch only worked for so long, leaving the small space under the covers that he’d carved out at Liam’s side pitch black.

Here, in this rat-infested hellhole in who-knows-where Afghanistan or Bolivia or wherever he’d followed his latest lead, there’s at least a dirty and barred window - the remnants of a tarp blocking most, but not _all_ , the light.  He can feel every bruise, every laceration, every broken bone.  But as long as they don’t block out all the light, he’ll be okay.

Liam has men coming.  Killian knows that like he knows his callsign - Hook - and knows his brother won’t stop until he finds him.  Killian just has to hold out until then.

They come for him again, these men who don’t speak his language and are angry that he took out their leader.  They are a bit scattered, and he’s used it to his advantage as much as he’s able, mapping out potential escape routes and cataloguing weapons and personnel.  But he’s still shackled and they still have metal pipes and cattle prods that keep him firmly in the “survive and wait” frame of mind.

But he sees the black fabric before he registers the new man, feels the sweat start to trickle down his back, smells his own fear - sharp and acidic - in his nostrils.  As soon as they’re near, he fights, using what little movement he has with his hands shackled to the wall and his feet bruised and swollen under the manacles.  He fights, using his elbows and his shoulders and the crown of his head to keep them away from him.

It’s no use, and perhaps it never was.  The blow to the nape of his neck subdues him just long enough for the fabric to fall over his head, obliterating his last view of the sun.  Killian shakes his head wildly, trying to dislodge it, but the drawstring at the base of the bag cinches tightly around his throat and - momentarily - he has something more terrifying to worry about.

He can’t breathe.

Killian’s head whips back and forth, searching for air that isn’t there, fighting for one more breath that isn’t coming.  The fabric is stealing the oxygen, the string around his throat cutting him off from the air.

His vision begins to go dark, half-formed apologies to Liam racing through his mind.

Stars dance against the backdrop of fabric when they finally release him, his gasps only doing so much to take in precious oxygen.  He can still imagine that the bag is suffocating him, but the string has loosened enough that he doesn’t pass out.

Then, they start to beat him.

It’s nothing new, the blows to his ribs, the punches to his face, the ringing in his ears as the world tilts sickeningly around him.  But he can’t anticipate the strikes, can’t tell where - how - they’re going to hit him next.  Killian lets his body go slack, hoping they’ll think he’s unconscious, but even as he falls prostrate, they keep kicking him.

One lucky boot catches him behind the ear and it all becomes a blur, and Killian floats far above the pain, the fear, the darkness.

Killian doesn’t know how long they beat him, how long he does his best to think of the brownstone Liam insists is _their_ home instead of the grungy room they’ve kept him in.  He _does_ know that when he finally sees light again, he wishes he hadn’t.

The feel of a cold steel muzzle bruising the base of his skull doesn’t manage to terrify him as much as the lens of the video camera and the blinking red light capturing all of this on film.

 


	2. Held at Gunpoint

When Scarlet rushes into the office - interrupting the phone call to a contact in Iraq who might have seen Killian three weeks ago - Liam wants to fire him, tear a strip off him, and maybe knock him to the ground and beat out some of his frustrations.  But before he can even rise from his seat, Will sweeps Liam’s feet out from under him as surely as a rip tide.

“We’ve got an incoming livestream in Ops.  It’s your brother.”

He’s running before he’s even aware that he’s stood up.  The sound of Scarlet’s body colliding with the door is only secondary to the relief that is coursing through him.

Killian is okay.

Liam is already plotting the weeks of paperwork that he’s going to saddle his little brother with for worrying him, already planning out the welcome home meal that he’ll feed Killian after weeks and months of surviving on rations and who-knows-what mystery meat, already strategizing how to get his brother home in the quickest way possible.

He’s seething a bit by the time he gets to the Operations Center, understanding that his brother probably got caught up in the chase and the mission, but pissed to bloody hell nevertheless.   _I’m bloody well going to_ kill _him this time,_ he thinks in pure exasperation as the analyst in front of him transfers the video to the main screen.  They had protocols in place for a _reason_ , and whatever Killian’s justifications were, there was no excuse for going weeks without checking in.

Whatever he was expecting to see - mostly a bruised but smirking version of Killian’s face as he centered the camera - Liam doesn’t get it.

What he _does_ see as the camera comes into focus doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.  The room is dark and grungy, looking as if it were an underused office in a warehouse somewhere.  Definitely not one of their safe houses or a seedy motel room that Killian had holed up in.

There’s a flag pinned to the wall that the camera is facing and Liam thinks he recognizes it.

But that’s not what captures his attention and steals his breath.

No.

No, it can’t be.

Scarlet was wrong.  This isn’t an incoming message from his brother.  This isn’t...

No.

The video plays for a few minutes, two men soundly beating another until the man goes limp, falling to the floor and no longer struggling to rise.  A voice calls out in another language and only then do the men stop.  They haul the man up - their grip is clearly the only thing keeping him upright now - and Liam begins to realize that something is very, very wrong.

“You thought you could infiltrate our organization?” a voice calls out in a heavy accent from somewhere out of sight of the camera.  Liam’s heart begins to pound.  “This will be your only warning not to try again.  This man will be given an easy death, but if you persist, we’ll send the next one back to your firm in pieces.”

Liam locks his knees and grips the back of the analyst’s chair to keep himself from collapsing to the ground.  The hooded man is struggling to kneel on his own, the proud line of his shoulders calling to Liam in a way that he wishes it wouldn’t.

Then they tear the hood away and even the sight of the gun pointed at the base of the man’s skull isn’t nearly as terrifying as the fear in the wide blue eyes that lock onto the camera’s lens.

Killian.

His little brother’s face is bruised and bloody, a gash under his eye and a split lip that - on this huge screen with its startlingly clear resolution - gapes wide and needs stitches.

The wild stare quickly shutters and turns defiant.

“No,” Liam whispers in spite of himself, his voice wavering on just those two little letters.  “No, please.”

There are men and women around him, Liam can hear their shocked whispers and harsh breathing.  He is in charge here, he can’t fall apart simply because his brother is… his brother is… he can’t… he…

He’s barely breathing, watching as Killian spits out blood and hisses insults that Liam wants to clap him upside the head for daring to utter.

“Your only warning,” the voice repeats, and then orders something in his own language.

Liam has only half a second to brace himself before the sharp retort of the gun echoes through the room.  He’s dimly aware of the scream that tears from his throat and the way he flinches away as blood sprays across the screen, obliterating the view.

But not the sound.

He’ll never forget the sound of his brother’s body hitting the floor and the chilling laughter that follows.

Half a moment more and a succinct, “He’s dead,” before the video cuts out.

Liam is frozen, staring at the screen as it goes black.

He can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t _think_.

Just a few minutes ago he was joking with himself about how he was going to kill his little brother for worrying him and now… now Killian is… he’s…

Liam orders the analysts to download the videos to their screens and to start combing the data for clues.  He’s not sure what he says after that, but he calmly walks out of the room and down the hall, shocked stares following in his wake.

It isn’t until he’s safely in his office, the door locked and the blinds shut tightly that Liam Jones falls to his knees and begins to sob.

 


	3. Grief

When Liam looks up, his little brother is being dragged into the small room as little more than dead weight.  The fight has gone out of Killian completely, but it is the bag over his head that stalls Liam’s breath in his throat.

Killian _hates_ the dark.

He’s hated it since they were small, since their father used to scream bloody murder at their mother while the two boys huddled in their room.  Liam wants to reach over and snag the fabric from Killian’s head, wants nothing more than to let his brother see the dim light that filters into the room.  But he can’t.  He’s frozen in place, unable to move or breathe or even _think_.

He can’t scream or shout or beg them to hurt _him_ instead.  Because he knows the men won’t listen.

No, all he can do is watch as Killian is dropped to the ground, his fingers curling and uncurling against the dirt floor as he gasps in much needed oxygen.  He only has a minute to compose himself before the first foot connects with his ribs.

Liam cries out along with his brother, knowing that Killian can’t hear him over the shouts and the muted sounds of boots impacting his side.  One of the men kneels down to start punching Killian instead, and Liam wants to leap out of the chair he’s stuck in, wants to beat this man within an inch of his own life.

Anything to turn their attention away from his little brother.

Killian can’t anticipate the blows with the bag over his head, so each time he’s punched in the face, his head snaps backwards violently.  He curls around his ribs a little too late, only to arch out a moment later when he’s kicked in the back.

Tears track down Liam’s face, feeling each blow as if they are beating him instead of leaving him to watch, impotent and helpless.

One particularly nasty blow to what must be Killian’s temple snaps his head to the side and then he goes completely limp, no more muffled sounds coming from under the bag, no more fight to him as he drops wordlessly to the ground.

Liam’s breath catches in his throat, waiting, praying for Killian to move.  To get up.

To live.

They don’t stop kicking Killian, not even when he’s clearly no longer reacting to even the most heinous of kicks to his groin and his abdomen.  

Liam shouts himself hoarse, but no one listens.

He watches in abject horror as Killian is kicked in the back of the head before the man who has been watching all of this from the sidelines calls out in a foreign language.  
Killian’s attackers stop immediately, dragging Killian up between them.  When they try to let go, Liam’s little brother starts to fall forward, and they are forced to continue holding him.

“You thought you could infiltrate our organization?” the man who is clearly in charge spits out angrily.  He keeps speaking, but Liam is concentrating solely on Killian.

Liam notices the moment his brother bites back his weakness, wishes Killian hadn’t been trained so well in how to do this.  His little brother summons whatever reserve of strength he has left and pulls his shoulders back in defiance of what is going on around him, out of his control.

A fourth man steps behind them, gun shoved ruthlessly into the base of Killian’s skull before the bag is finally, blessedly tugged off.  Killian blinks owlishly in the dim light, blood trickling down the side of his face and his head seemingly too heavy for his neck.  His lip is split wide open and he clearly needs medical aid.

And then the fear that Killian never could hide from his big brother washes over the both of them and leaves Liam wanting to lean forward and empty the contents of his stomach.  His little brother is _terrified_ and there is nothing he can do about it.

The look is only there for an instant before Killian masks the fear with his temper.  He leans forward as much as he’s able and spits blood at the man who is clearly in charge.  “Was that the best you could do?  I’ve had worse mornings in the Hilton,” he spits at his captors.

Liam groans and wants to smack Killian upside the head for his cheek.   _Quit antagonizing the men with guns, little brother,_ he begs.

“Your only warning,” the man hisses at Liam, ignoring Killian completely.  He says something to the man behind Killian and Liam can’t turn away, already knowing what is coming next.  Killian knows it, too, if the way his eyes lock with Liam’s is any indication.

The sharp retort of the gun echoes through Liam’s ears and tears the cry of agony from his chest.  His whole field of vision is covered in red and he can only hear as Killian’s body hits the--

**REMINDER: MEETING WITH FUNERAL DIRECTOR 9AM**

**DISMISS?  SNOOZE?  REPEAT?**

 

Liam blinked, startled out of reliving the scene on the video over and over again.  It was six am, he’d been watching Killian’s last moments alive since he’d sat down at the computer with a fifth of scotch that had been his constant companion since that day in Ops when the live feed of Killian’s death had come through.  Liam had assigned half of the analysts in his employ to pour over the video for any hint that Killian was alive, that this damned video was some kind of trick.

They’d come back to him with some information - none of it good.

The compound that they’d been holding Killian in was the same one that Liam’s operatives were set to storm within hours of the livestream being set - they’d simply been too slow.  News of Killian’s death had reached them before there was an unnecessary loss of life, but that didn’t set well with Liam, either.

He’d burn the whole world to the ground if it meant Killian’s murderers were taken to task (and maybe drawn, quartered, and tarred in the process) for their involvement.

Nothing about the video had been doctored.  Killian had most certainly been the victim in the video and it hadn’t been pre-recorded.

There were no further leads as to where the organization Killian was trying to infiltrate would have shifted their base of operations to.

Killian had died and there was nothing Liam to do to avenge him.

_Yet._

So Liam had ordered the video scrubbed from their archives and downloaded to his personal laptop.  He wouldn’t leave his brother’s last moments of fear and agony for anyone else to find.

This was all his bloody fault.   _He_ had been the one to give Killian the mission.   _He_ had been the one to agree with his brother that backup would only hinder his progress.   _He_ had been the one who had waited so long before realizing something was wrong.

And even the day that the livestream had come through to Ops.   _I’m bloody well going to_ kill _him this time,_ he’d thought in pure exasperation, still not believing that something could be wrong.

Liam downed the glass of scotch, set a new reminder for the meeting with the funeral director to allow his colleagues and their few ‘friends’ to pay Killian their last respects, and hit play on the video again.

 


	4. Outnumbered

Killian’s nose itched.

He had no idea why his nose was itchy, nor why it was so important.

And then he remembered.

Dead men’s noses didn’t _itch_.

But his did.

It was, perhaps, the most startling realization that Killian had ever made - that he was, in fact, alive instead of an abandoned and probably mutilated corpse in whatever hellhole his captors should have left him in.  It didn’t make any sense.  He’d known from the moment that he’d seen the video camera that he was a dead man.  The beating and the lead up to it was entirely unnecessary, Killian had thought, but hadn’t had more than a moment to muse on it before the entire right side of his face had exploded in agony and he’d let the blackness claim him.

Thinking it was his end.

_Bloody hell_.

Liam.  Killian didn’t know much at the moment, his ears were ringing and his world spun sickeningly around him, but he knew this.

His brother was on the other end of that video feed, and now he thought Killian was dead.

Why wasn’t he dead?

His thoughts kept flitting away from him, like an annoying fly that won’t leave you alone but won’t stick around long enough to be pinned down.  There was something important he needed to figure out but he just couldn’t focus.

As the world lurched underneath him, Killian let his hold on consciousness slip away from him.

When he woke again - _why do I keep waking up? -_ he was in a new room, bound and gagged but blissfully alone.

And his nose still itched.

Killian tried to concentrate on that so that he could ignore the rest of his body - caught up in throes of agony that all seemed to stem out from the right side of his head, which thrummed brightly with every beat of his heart.

He tried to breathe around the feel of broken ribs, tried to pretend that the lacerations and bruises on his back weren’t throbbing, tried to keep as still as possible so as not to drag one burn or another across tattered and blood-crusted clothing.

And still, the world swam around him.

Killian had no concept of the passage of time other than the sporadic bottles of water and moldy bread that showed up near his head when he woke sometimes.  Slowly, surely, he conserved his strength, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he had to manufacture his own escape.

Because as much as he knew that Liam would have moved mountains and torn the moon from the sky if it would have helped him rescue his little brother, Liam thought he was dead.

Liam wasn’t coming.

Which meant Killian had to find his own way out, his own way home, back to the safety of his brother’s watchful (if a little too Mother Hen for Killian’s liking) eye.  He needed Liam, and Liam needed him.

It was the only thing, now, that drove him to silently seethe as he was beaten again and again, to hold his tongue when he was taunted and humiliated, to bide his time until he could stand on his own two feet again.

And, just when they thought they’d beaten him, just when they’d thought him far enough gone to drop their guard and risk moving him to a more secure, more permanent location, Killian struck.

The man delivering his daily mold was the first to fall under Killian’s onslaught.  The bastard who had laughed at Killian day after day as he’d choked down the bread with his hands bound behind him never saw Killian’s attack coming.  His hands no longer bound, Killian made quick work of the man - leaving behind only a comical look of surprised fear etched onto his face as his neck broke.

Two knives and a .38 with a full clip settled Killian’s nerves a bit, allowing him to channel the adrenaline and focus around the distracting pulse of blood in his head.

_Worry about the pain later_ , he commanded, compartmentalizing the needs and the annoyances his body was trying to paralyze him with.

Water.   _Need_.

Killian stooped down and snagged the water bottle, downing half of it in one gulp as he stood straight up again.

Dizziness.   _Annoyance._

He breathed deeply through his nose, pushing past the weakness that threatened to send him back down into a crumpled heap and finding as much stability as he could manage.

It would have to be enough.

Sharp pain.   _Annoyance._

His head pounded in time with every other hurt he’d endured over the past days, weeks… months? he wasn’t entirely sure how long it had been nor where he was.  Those could be examined later, on his way home.

Escape.   _Need_.

Killian checked the gun in his hand and weighted the two knives before storing one in his boot and fisting the hilt of the other.  Creeping to the door, he thankfully found it left unlocked and the hallway on the other side empty.

It wouldn’t last for long, and he’d take the reprieve where he could.

Killian sidled down the hallway, knife held aloft and gun left dangling at his side - he needed the element of surprise if he was going to make it out of here.

And then the real battle would begin when he tried to make his way across several borders and an ocean without this organization getting wind of where he was.

He was utterly alone in this rat’s nest of terrorists, and he couldn’t even count on back up swooping in to pick up the pieces.

_Liam’s going to be insufferable about all this running around without backup when I get back,_ he thought idly as he wiped the blade of the knife clean from his fourth kill.

And then he remembered.

Liam thought he was dead.  His big brother was suffering his own agony that Killian didn’t even want to imagine having to worry about. No, he had the easy job out here in the field taking the physical risks.  He knew his brother was safe and sound, would go home every night and probably die an old man with no regrets.

Liam had the hard job, having to survive the risks Killian took.

“Sonuva-” Killian slashed the man’s throat before he could finish the curse, but the damage was done.  His partner turned back to see what had startled the dead man, but he was too far away for Killian to silence before he raised the alarm.

_All right, a fight it is_ , he mused as he sighted down the gun and pulled the trigger.

It was the last easy battle Killian fought.

They came at him in pairs, in trios, fists and clubs and knives that all claimed their pound of flesh from him.  But they fought to subdue him.

Killian fought to survive.

To save his brother from himself.

To get home to Liam.

They never stood a chance.

Man after man fell, exacting as much damage as they could before they did, but to no avail.

When it was all said and done, Killian knelt in a room full of bodies, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe through the pain and not pass out.

Rest.   _Annoyance_.

He could rest when he was safe - when Liam had his claws in him, forcing medicine and bedrest on him for the foreseeable future.

Killian might not even complain.

But that reprieve was still a long way off.

He was in a foreign country with no exit strategy and no resources.

He remembered the intel he’d gathered, the sly comments his captor had made that only someone who knew the ins and outs of JR Solutions could make, the fear that his brother’s firm had been infiltrated.

No, Killian had no resources.  Not when he didn’t know which safe houses and which allies had been compromised.

It wasn’t the first time Killian had needed to make his way home by his own ingenuity and skills.

But it was the first time he’d done it knowing that to stay radio silent was tantamount to torturing his brother.

Killian’s heart clenched as he thought of the agony he was leaving Liam in, thinking his little brother was gone.  There was no one in the world that Killian could trust _other than_ his brother right now, and he couldn’t risk that Liam’s phone had been tapped.

He’d just have to apologize later.

Killian slunk away from the compound, limping painfully and holding onto consciousness by nothing more than grit and determination.  He couldn’t rest, couldn’t give in to the aches and pains and stabbing reminders that he was very much hurt.

Not yet.

Not until he was back with Liam, where his big brother could take over the watch.

Killian had a long way to go.

 


	5. Surrender

Three days.

Killian Jones had holed up in a cave in the hills with little more than the supplies he’d stolen from a nomadic group of travelers and the water he’d painstakingly measured out and boiled for three days.

To be fair, he’d slept for most of the second, trying to regain some of the strength he’d need to craft an exfil plan with no resources.

But three days in a cave in the hills in a desert climate with nothing more than tattered clothes and bandages to protect him from the changing temperatures had left him miserable and feverish.

He only had one thing on his mind when he finally emerged.

Get home to Liam.

It was likely going to take a wing and a prayer.

And a new set of clothes, some money, and an identity that wouldn’t garner too many questions.

Thankfully, Killian Jones was nothing if not resourceful and could put the Boy Scouts to shame with his own level of preparedness for any situation.  

The scratch of fabric over badly-healed wounds assaulted Killian’s senses as he pulled on a clean shirt and he fought the urge to tear it off.  He was stronger than _this_ , he had survived far worse.

Just because he couldn’t think of a time when that was true didn’t make it any less so.

Jeans next, and he nearly whimpered at the pull of the marks on his back, at the crunch of his ribs as the broken ends rubbed together while he pulled them up.

He slept an entire afternoon away in a cheap motel room after getting dressed, needing the escape as much as, if not more than, he needed to keep moving towards Liam.  Towards home.

Killian couldn’t make it home if he collapsed from exhaustion or depleted defenses first.

It was surprising what a shower with questionable water pressure and some carefully rolled down sleeves could do to make a person look trustworthy, he’d realized some time long ago.  With his ballcap pulled low to mask the score above his temple from the bullet wound that Liam still thought had claimed his life, Killian had managed to weasel his way into a local poker game and walk out with just enough to keep him afloat and _not_ enough to convince any of the men he’d fleeced to come after him.

His ribs really didn’t need another workover any time soon.

He wasn’t healing as quickly as he should, it was in the back of his mind at all times.  He needed to get back to the States where he could safely stand down.

God, he just wanted to rest.

One last step in his plan - an identity.

Killian Jones had _plenty_ of false identities.  Aliases that had been carefully crafted and backstopped by the analysts at JR Solutions.  He had access to any number of passports that he’d stashed before starting this godforsaken mission.

He couldn’t risk using a single one of them.

If he did, an alert would pop up back home and signal to whoever was looking - Liam, for sure, but also whomever had betrayed them to the terrorists - that he was coming.

Killian _really_ couldn’t chance the wrong person seeing that alert.

William Smee, on the other hand, had no ties to Liam’s company and no reason to betray him.

Not with all the favors he owed Jones for not outing him, killing him, or otherwise abandoning him to the less than savory men Smee associated with on a daily basis.

An identity that would get him on a flight to the States didn’t even begin to pay Killian back for everything he’d done for the man, but he’d cash in whatever chits Smee required to get home.

To get to Liam.

_ James Hook _ .

_ Really? _

Killian shook his head, regretting it as the world spun around him again.  His head was pounding now, the multiple concussions and the lack of nutrition over the past… how long had it been? were all starting to catch up with him.

“I can get you on a flight,” Smee cajoled as Killian opened the door.  “But you’ll owe _me_ a favor for it.”

He thought he might regret it, but it sounded so good to just let someone else figure out the next step that he nodded before he could think too hard about it.

Smee grinned.  “Give me a couple hours to make sure she’s set and we’ll get you home, Cap.”

Killian agreed, sinking down onto a ratty old couch that had seen better days.

It smelled like cheese.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, sunk into a half-stupor that allowed him to rest while still keeping watch, hyperaware of his surroundings at all times.  But it was still light out when Smee returned, a wide grin on his face and a piece of paper clutched in his grimy paws.

“Go to this hangar and ask for Jack.  He’ll get you to New York.  I assume that will get you close enough?”

_ New York _ .  He could get to Boston from there with the money he’d won in the game.  Boston meant the T, the T got him to JR Solutions.  JR Solutions meant Liam.

Liam meant home.

“Aye, mate.  I owe you one.”

The portly little man smirked.  “Happy to help, sir,” he snarked before shooing Killian out the door.

There was no one in the goddamned hangar.

Killian was going to go back to that ratty little room and tear Smee apart piece by-

“Can I help you?” a mousey little woman peeked out from the fuselage of a half-finished plane.

Killian started.  He’d had no idea anyone was there.  He was slipping.

“I was… I was told to find Jack,” he stuttered, still trying to understand how far his senses had started to slip.

The woman beamed.  “Monterey?  Oh he’s out with the boys at the Festival.  I can help you out with whatever you need.”

_ What? _

His vision was starting to swim, his ribs starting to scream.  He just wanted a bed.  Or a chair.  Or even just a corner where no one was going to find him and hurt him.

“Smee sent me?” he tried instead.

“Gee willikers!  You’re Mr. Hook!  Of course.  Dale said you were coming.  We’re almost fueled up over there”---she pointed to a rickety looking plane that Killian would swear had never logged a single air mile---“and I’ll get you to New York lickety split.”

_ Oh God. _

He was going to kill Smee slowly.

If he survived the flight home.

_ Home.  Liam.  Home. _

Could he trust her?

Killian Jones counted on two fingers the number of people in this world he counted on to watch his back.  His brother and himself.  Could he let this woman take his safety into her hands and trust her to get him home?

Killian climbed aboard the plane and collapsed into the seat afforded to him.  A spring stuck into his back and the cushions chafed against where his shirt had ridden up, aggravating the burns on his lower back.

The blackness claimed him within minutes of them getting in the air.

* * *

“Mr. Hook?  Mr. Hook, we’re here.  Do you need an ambulance or something?”

Killian startled awake, shocked to see the young woman’s face so close to his own without him noticing.

“No, lass, I’m fine.  Are we… did we crash?”

She laughed, a light little giggle that made it seem as if what he’d asked wasn’t alarming at all.

“Gee willikers, no!  We’re here.”

Killian looked out the window of the plane, surprised to see a large airport outside instead of trees or the ocean.

“Oh,” he remarked stupidly.

She giggled again.  “I know Mr. Smee said that you needed to get to Boston, so I brought you here instead.  Seems like you needed to be here more than I needed to get to New York.”

_ Boston. _

_ Liam. _

_ Liam! _

“Thank you,” he breathed out, relieved to be so close to aid.  He was chagrined to feel the sting of tears in his eyes, but blinked them back quickly.  “I never even asked you your name, lass.”

“Oh, that’s all right.  I told you when we got in the air, but you were already sleeping.  It’s Gadget.”

_ Right. _

“Thank you,” he breathed again, disembarking and nearly collapsing on the tarmac.

_ Boston _ .

Killian eventually stumbled down into the subway, curled up in a corner of the train, and tried to breathe away the stars in his vision.

He was going home.

* * *

Liam Jones had been many things in his lifetime.  He was an orphan.  He had been an older brother.  He had been a Captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.  He was the commanding officer at _JR Solutions_.

He was completely, and utterly, alone in this world.

The men and women under his command now walked around eggshells around him, had done so ever since that goddamned video had come into Ops, obliterating his world around him and hardening him into the shell of a man he’d once been.

Some days he didn’t know why he even bothered coming into work anymore.

Alone in his office, the day’s itinerary was posted on his blotter as if he truly cared about the requisitions meeting or the budget committee that would keep his firm in the black for the next quarter.  He heard the bustle of the bullpen, the comings and goings of everyone under his command, and he felt completely removed from it.

He didn’t care.

He had a job to do, Killian would have torn a strip off him if he thought for a second that Liam was neglecting the other missions so that he could perfect the details of his funeral.  But it didn’t matter.  Details were all Liam could focus on without falling apart, so this last way to honor Killian would have to serve.

Liam kept a tight rein of control on the emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface again, images dancing in his memories of Killian at his first day of primary school, Killian on the rugby pitch, Killian sitting on the side of their bathtub with a black eye and a fierce glare as Liam reminded him - again - that fighting wouldn’t solve anything.

Killian as a gangly teenager, balancing on the balls of his feet and learning to box under Liam’s careful tutelage.  Killian in his Navy uniform, bright faced and proud to be following older brother’s lead.

Killian after Somalia.

Killian as he healed in Boston.

Killian on his knees in that hellhole in God-knew-where, bloody and-

_ No! _

Liam clamped down on the memories, unwilling to fall back into the last moments of Killian’s life here at work.  He didn’t need the video to relive his little brother’s last moments, but he’d go home tonight and play it again, anyw-

The office outside his door was silent save for hushed whispers.   _What_ was going on?  He had just stood up to go and see, thankful for the distraction, when his door creaked open painstakingly slowly.

_ Who the bloody hell dared to enter his office without knoc- _

Liam’s breath caught in his chest.  He was hallucinating.  It was the only explanation.  He’d been daydreaming about the past, allowed his memories to wander down _that_ path, and had snapped.

There was no way that his lit-

“Liam?”  Killian asked in a hesitant whisper, as if he, too, weren’t sure how real this was.

_ Killian _ .

Killian.  There.  Just there.  Alive and standing in his doorway.  Alive.

_ Alive! _

Liam couldn’t move.  Rooted to the spot at the side of his desk, one hand clenching against the wooden top - to keep him from flying off the handle or grounded in reality, he wasn’t sure - Liam couldn’t move.

His little brother was standing in - leaning against, rather - the doorway and he was, quite literally, a bloody mess.  Liam’s eyes tracked immediately up to the badly healed gash at his hairline, the sound of the gunshot that had caused it echoing in his ears.  There were bags and dark bruises under Killian’s eyes, a hitch in his stance that Liam was well accustomed to equating with his brother hiding injuries.  His clothes were ill-fitting and rumpled, days of wear out of them.  One arm wrapped tightly around his ribs, the other still holding onto the door handle as if it were a lifeline.

None of it mattered one bloody bit, not when Killian was standing mere feet away from him.

“Liam?” his brother asked again, biting back a grunt when he finally, _finally_ , took a few steps forward, hand outstretched as if he could summon his older brother to his side.

Liam Jones had been many things in his life, but he’d never been able to ignore his baby brother’s pleas.  He stepped forward, begging silently for this to be real, for this to be true, not some cruel trick or dream - nightmare - where his brother was going to be ripped from him as soon as he tried to touch-

Killian sank to his knees, a little cry of pain the only warning.

No.

_ No! _

Liam raced the last few steps around the desk, skidding to his knees and catching his little brother in his arms before he could fall prostrate to the floor.

_ No! _

But it was real.  Liam didn’t wake up, he didn’t startle himself out of the hallucination, he didn’t lose his brother to the mists of daydreams.  Killian was real and solid in his arms, his head lolling to Liam’s shoulder with a cheeky little grin of relief before his eyes rolled back into his head and he surrendered his strength.

God, Liam had never been so afraid in his- yes, he had.  All those weeks ago when he’d seen the video and realized what was going to happen as soon as Killian had over the airwaves.  But this was a damn close second.

His little brother had always been small, lanky and nearly scrawny, but he felt _tiny_ in Liam’s arms.  Most of his muscle tone was gone, weeks of starvation and torture tearing it away from him.  He was radiating heat, every inch of skin that Liam could reach was burning with fever.

He was terrifyingly and startlingly limp, passed out in Liam’s embrace.

“Help!” he screamed, uncaring if his subordinates heard the emotion in his voice, _needing them_ to hear the emotion in his voice.  “ _HELP!_ ”

He pulled Killian further into his arms, backing them both up until he leaned back against his desk and sat there, helpless.  He had Killian.  He could fix this, now.

“Killian,” he nearly wailed when his brother didn’t respond.

Will Scarlet stuck his head around the door.  “We already called a medic when we saw him, boss.  Should be here any minute.”

Liam barely managed a nod, cuddling his little brother closer to keep him off the cold floor.

And then hands were tearing his from his brother, pulling him away from Killian, trying to get him to stand and leave Killian’s side.

He couldn’t.  Goddamn it, didn’t they _see_ that?  He was Killian’s older brother and he needed to…

No.  He wasn’t what his brother needed right now.  That was for later, when Whale put Killian back together and sent him home for Liam to heal him.

But, right now, Liam didn’t have antibiotics and pain meds.  He didn’t have warm blankets and antiseptic.  He didn’t have the keys to the bloody ambulance so he could drive Killian to the hospital himself.

He had to leave his brother to the capable hands of the medics trying to save his life.

_ God, I’m bloody well going to  _ kill _him this time,_ he thought in exasperation, moving his brother to the floor and kneeling as far out of the way as he could while still holding Killian’s hand.

His brother would be all right now.

And then Liam was going to shackle him to the goddamned bed and then a goddamned desk until they were both old enough to retire.

(Well, maybe not.  But still.)


	6. Guilt

Killian was asleep upstairs.

Well,  _ asleep  _ might be a stretch - he had succumbed to the inevitable side effects of the painkillers and antibiotics that Whale had forced on him - but he was upstairs in his bed.

Safe.

Home.

_ Safe _ .

So why was Liam sitting down in their home office at three a.m., drinking scotch that was older than both of them combined and staring at the laptop like it held the secrets of the universe?

_ Because _ Killian was asleep upstairs, but part of Liam wasn’t entirely sure that he was safe.  Not from himself.  Not from his own convictions.

And certainly not from Liam’s decisions.

Orders.

Commands.

Liam Jones, formerly Captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, currently commanding officer at  _ JR Solutions _ , always Killian’s older brother, couldn’t stop replaying the images in his head.  He didn’t need the video that was heavily encrypted on his computer so that Killian wouldn’t find it, but he hit play anyway.

Again.

For the dozenth time.  Or maybe the hundredth.

Since Killian had come home.

Never mind how it had played practically on loop from the moment he got it in his inbox to the moment Killian had shown up in his office, bloody beaten and broken, and collapsed at his feet.

He could see the images in his sleep, in his waking hours, in his brother’s face every time Killian looked at him with half-lidded eyes.

Liam could see the betrayal, the disappointment, the abandonment in Killian’s eyes.

Or maybe that was his own misgivings over what happened.  Liam wasn’t really sure of anything any more.  Except for one thing.

Killian was asleep upstairs.

He thought.

God, what if he wasn’t?  What if this was all some sort of nightmare?

Liam left the scotch behind as he practically bolted up the stairs, only just able to kerb his frantic run before he burst into Killian’s room and frightened him awake.

Assuming Killian was actually in there.

Hand shaking, breath caught in his chest, Liam turned the doorknob, eyes tightly shut in case the room was empty.

Liam heard the slightly hitched breaths from the boy… no, Killian hadn’t been a boy in a very long time… from his brother, sleeping peacefully in the bed.  In his room.  In their home - no matter that Killian refused to call it that.

Killian was there, safe and asleep and no longer in some madman’s clutches because Liam had screwed up.

He should go back downstairs.  Or better yet, to try and sleep in his own bed.  He had a few hours before Killian needed to be woken for more antibiotics.  A few hours before the painkillers wore off enough to let him fall into the nightmares that plagued his sleep.

A few hours before he would beg Liam to save him, beg for his big brother to find him.

A few hours before he would wake up terrified and clammy, brushing off any of Liam’s attempts to help free him from the sheets and blankets.

Liam took three steps forward, turned back to the door, and then threw it all to the wind, creeping over to Killian’s side and just sitting at the foot of the bed.  Unbidden, his hand crept out to wrap around his brother’s bare ankle - cold from being stuck out from the blankets like he’d done since he was a little boy.

Killian Jones never could sleep unless he had one foot sticking off the side of the bed, sock only half on and cutting into his arch.

Killian was there, he was safe, and he was going to heal.

It didn’t make Liam feel any better.

Because his brother couldn’t sleep on his stomach like he normally did, the bruises and the burns too painful to touch the soft sheets Liam changed before they could get scratchy.  Because his brother couldn’t sleep more than a few hours at the time and only because of the medications that he took without complaint.

Because the one time he tried to get away with not taking the meds, he’d woken up screaming and arching off the bed, unable to relax his muscles until Whale had driven across town and injected him with goddamned morphine.  And then apologized for frightening Liam and putting Victor out.

Because all of this was, unequivocally, Liam Jones’s fault.

He didn’t deserve this.  Didn’t deserve to sit here and watch his brother sleep.  He hadn’t earned that right yet.  He still had so much to atone for, from the gauze wrapped around his brother’s temple to the lacerations on his back, from the torn muscles to the swelling around the shoulder that had been badly and repeatedly dislocated, from the infection that raged rampant through Killian’s body to the nightmares and the waking memories.

Forcing himself to stand, to walk away from Killian’s peaceful sleep, that was the penance that Liam Jones deserved.

But he’d never believed himself to be strong, not like Killian was, so Liam knew that it would only be a few fingers of scotch and a few hours - at most - before he was back at his brother’s side.

Because Liam Jones may be formerly a Captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, currently the commanding officer at  _ JR Solutions _ , and always -  _ always - _ Killian’s older brother, but he was also a selfish man.

And he needed his brother.


	7. Drugged

The duct tape around his wrists and across his chest proved to be problematic, but Killian Jones loved a challenge.  True, he’d prefer if his challenges didn’t come at the expense of being locked in a room and beaten at his captors’ whims, but beggars and choosers and all that.  He didn’t have a choice; Liam had been captured as well and Killian needed to find him. He needed to get his brother  _ out _ .

_ Why _ Liam was there was a little fuzzy; Killian was pretty sure that last blow to the head had knocked a few memories loose, but he knew one thing for certain.  Liam wasn’t a field agent, was far more comfortable behind a desk. And that’s where he would have been if Killian had been faster, smarter, better. If he hadn’t gotten sloppy and gotten himself captured.

If the bastards from Al-whatever in God’s name their faction called themselves did anything to Liam,  _ anything _ , he’d never forgive himself.

He could feel the blood trickling down his wrists and making the shard of glass he’d managed to snag slippery.  Killian almost lost his grip on it, but sliced his finger open trying to hold on. If he lost this, if he couldn’t get enough of a tear in the tape to get free, he’d never be able to save Liam.

But wait…

Wasn’t Liam coming for him?  Wasn’t Liam the one who was going to save  _ him _ ?  Killian shook his head against the confusion.  Yes, that was right. He had to get free so that when Liam came, they could escape.

Right?

Regardless, the tape gave way and Killian was able to free himself from the chair.  He switched the shard of glass to rest between his fingers where it would cause his captors the worst damage as he punched, and limped to the door.

Everything should have hurt.  He had bruises on top of lacerations on top of burns.  He wasn’t entirely sure  _ why _ everything seemed muted, more like memory than reality, but he ignored it.  He had to get free. He had to find Liam.

Liam was there, wasn’t he?

He’d barely made it to the door when it opened abruptly, two men in the doorway who looked as shocked as he felt.

He didn’t have time to think, only acted.  Killian launched himself forward and tackled one of the men, punching him in the throat with the glass and grimacing at the warm spray of blood that signified a messy death.

It was the only victory he could claim.  A metal pipe crashed down on his back and stunned him.  It was enough for his remaining attacker to lay into him, punching and kicking until it was all Killian could do to curl in a ball and protect his head and vital organs.

The cattle prod came out next, finding all the places Killian already hurt and lighting them aflame.  He tried to hold back, tried to bite through his lip rather than crying out, but when the prongs dug into the sluggishly bleeding wound in his side, he couldn’t help it.

“Liam!  Help me!   _ Please!!! _ ”

Something was shaking him now, and it added insult to injury.  He tried to curl away from that, too, but he couldn’t get away.  It seemed that his whole world was shaking, lighting up every hurt.

And then he heard it.

“Killian!  Wake up!”

_ Liam _ .

He wanted to wake up, wanted to escape for this nightmare of memories that had him trapped.  But he couldn’t.

“Killian!”

He was able to crack one eye open, the other still swollen shut under the bandage Whale had wrapped over the badly-healing gunshot graze that Liam had believed killed him.  He could remember the grief in Liam’s eyes in the moments before he’d realized his little brother was alive. He’d been able to see it in the slump of Liam’s shoulders and the sluggishness of his movements.

And then he’d collapsed in front of his big brother and Liam had been inconsolable.

The morphine was the only thing that let Killian sleep for a few hours at the time, but the distorted memories that they forced him to relive in his dreams almost weren’t worth it.

“Killian?” his brother’s soft whisper flitted through the memories and grounded him in reality.

It was only then that Killian realized he was cocooned in Liam’s embrace, sobbing into his shirt.

_ Bloody hell _ .

He needed to stop relying on the meds.  He needed to stop scaring his brother.

He needed them both to heal.

“I’m right here, little brother.  You’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe,” Liam was muttering frantically in Killian’s ear, and he was chagrined to realize that he needed the reassurance.  “Don’t worry. You’re home, little brother. You’re home with me. God, you’re home with me. It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

He managed a weak nod, tucking his head further under Liam’s chin just like he’d done when they were small.  It hurt, every movement he made was like he was being tortured all over again. But Liam needed this even more than he, himself, did.

Liam was drinking.  Killian could smell it on him and while he didn’t blame him for it, it still scared him.  Their father had been a drunk and had abandoned them.

Killian needed Liam more than ever.

But that was a battle he couldn’t manage right now.  Not now when he couldn’t imagine doing anything to upset the balance between them.  Liam was the only thing keeping him here, in the present where he knew he was safe.

The morphine was a necessary evil, but Killian was terrified every time he took it.  Terrified that what he had here wasn’t real, and that he was still trapped in that hellhole, waiting for them to realize that he was too much a liability.  Waiting for them to actually kill him before he got a chance to escape. To come home to Liam.

“I’ve got you, little brother,” Liam muttered again, and Killian nodded - sleepy now and fading fast.  He wanted to rail against the nickname, remind Liam that he was only younger, not little any longer. But he couldn’t.  Not now, not when he wanted nothing more than to just be Liam Jones’s little brother, nothing more.

Nothing less.

“Sleep, Killian, I’ve got your six.”

Killian obeyed the order.

**Author's Note:**

> To clear up any confusion, the first set of these ficlets are set before the events of The Darling Affair, and are based on a passing comment in a paragraph in the first chapter:   
> They had both inherited the Jones’ family stubbornness, but Killian, it seemed, had developed it in spades. It was an unwavering resolve that had kept him alive in the past, long after another operative would have given in and been lost. In one harrowing mission gone FUBAR, Killian’s tenacity had kept him alive long after even Liam had broken down and started to make funeral arrangements. It was, unfortunately, a part of his character that Liam had never been able to teach Killian how to shut down completely. 
> 
>  
> 
> The second set of ficlets are set during the end of The Darling Affair, when Killian is recovering at home. These will feature Emma as well as Liam with Killian.


End file.
